2010 in the 1900's
by Xx.Triple A.xX
Summary: There was a hole. A hole where there wasn't SUPPOSED to be one. And that's how I ended up stuck in 19th-century England, pretty much fending for myself while trying to figure out why this Moriarty person hates me.
1. The Prologue, Where Things Blow Up

**Opening Authoressial Note: **Hi guys. (Timid wave) I know I'm supposed to be writing the sequel to RISTI, but I've had this on my computer for a while and I thought I'd try delving back into the world of SH fanfiction, sooo... please don't eat me. (Retreats into dark corner)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes! I do have 3 different copies of his stories, though. Why? Because one is ILLUSTRATED! And the other... was bought on Ebay... by accident... yeah.

* * *

"Ow! OW! Hey, _let go_!!"

"What's this, Moriarty?" a man's voice called from the dimly lit area at the far end of the room. "I wouldn't have expected you to drag a civilian into the mess."

"I _wouldn't_ have," my captor growled, "but _this_ one was in my home with no explanation for how she got here."

"I DID TOO HAVE AN EXPLANATION, YOU LYING JERK! I TOLD YOU, I FELL THROUGH A HOLE!!"

"People who fall through holes do not generally end up in the second story of people's townhouses. Chain her up," he ordered the flunky holding me.

"What?! Chain – _NO!!_" That was when I put my self-defense skills to good use and used the flunky's body weight against him. This had, however, the unfortunate effect of sending us both toppling down the stairs. Fortunately, he got the worst of it.

Less fortunately, when I leapt to my feet, there was another flunky pointing a gun at my head. At least, I assumed he was a flunky; on second glance, however, he looked perhaps a bit too well-dressed and groomed to hold such a low rank.

"Well done, Moran." Ah, the Evil Captor knew his name! Rank upped from "flunky" to "sidekick!" "Would you like the honors?"

"Certainly." And suddenly I was being hauled to my feet and chained to a wall next to two grown men.

"HEY! You can't DO this! OOHHHH, this is SO illegal! ARGH! GET BACK HERE!!"

The sidekick named Moran disappeared into the darkness, and shortly afterward came the definitive BOOM of a large and heavy door shutting.

Silence. Total darkness.

"Hullo," said one of my fellow prisoners – not the man chained next to me, but the one on his far side. "Sorry you got wrapped up in all this. Are you alright? That was quite a nasty tumble you took down those stairs."

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks for asking. The flunky took most of it. But seriously, who _is_ this guy? And why the heck does he have a _dungeon_ in his house?"

"His name is Professor James Moriarty," the man to whom I was speaking said grimly. "He's quite a brilliant man, an outstanding criminal, and apparently a model society figure. And in regards to your second question… I suppose precisely for this purpose."

"Yeah, that's kind of obvious… but still weird…"

There was a pause. I felt the need to render it nonexistent.

"My name's Lukas."

"A pleasure to meet you, though I wish it could have been under different circumstances. I am Dr. John -"

And then there was an explosion.

* * *

**A3:** MUAHAHAHA cliffhanger on the first chapter, HOW DO YA LIKE ME NOW. ...I bet not much, huh.

...Eventually I will kidnap someone from the SH-verse to do these Ending Authoressial Notes with me. In the meantime, it's just me... asking nicely for reviews. So, please? Tell me what you think? (Puppy eyes)


	2. Holmes, Hairpins and Flashbacks, Oh My!

**Opening Authoressial Note:** Oh look another chapter ALREADY! (Confetti) What fun! …Well, that was shockingly reticent. I GOT TO SEE _IRON MAN 2_ IT WAS AWESOME GO WATCH IT.

Also, the Great Detective makes his appearance in this chapter. Go ahead, squee. No one's watching.

**Disclaimer:** I WILL BUY THE NEW MOVIE but in the meantime… nuh-uh.

* * *

Loud noise in an enclosed space is not good for your ears, as studies of indoor rock concerts have shown. Explosions are even worse. There are probably statistics that show just how _much_ worse, but I haven't seen them.

As I yelled in surprise and alarm and tried to somehow protect myself without using my arms (which, as you'll kindly remember, were chained above my head), the head of the man chained next to me snapped up as if he'd just woken up from being asleep or unconscious – which, I realized shortly, he had.

"What happened? Watson! Are you alright? Brilliant. I'm bleeding! Head wound. Minor, shouldn't be a problem. Who are you?" I assumed this last inquiry was directed at me.

"Uh, Lukas."

"Lovely to meet you, Lukas. I assume your parents wanted a boy? You're certainly dressed like one. Tch. Thoroughly indecent."

"Holmes!" his companion snapped. "This is no time to be -"

"I don't suppose you have a hairpin, Lukas?" the new guy inquired. "It would be extremely useful for picking this lock."

I did, in fact, have several pins in my hair, mostly for use in pinning back my bangs. They were just slightly too long, got in my eyes, looked weird – but my mother wouldn't let me cut them. So I pinned them back out of my face 90% of the time.

"Yeah, but I can't give them to you 'cuz my hands are chained. I'll do it, though – hang on a sec." What? Sometimes I got bored. Mostly when my mom stuck me in my room and I had nothing else to do.

After a fumbling moment or two – CLICK! The chains fell off my wrists, and I proceeded to assist my fellow prisoners. I was starting to de-imprison the one whose name was apparently Dr. John Watson when, BOOM!! Another explosion.

"Holmes? Was that supposed to happen?" demanded Watson, who in the growing light of the fire that the dual explosions had started was revealed to be a slender, rather handsome man with a trim moustache and blondeish-brown hair.

"No. Obviously, when setting that up earlier, I failed to accurately judge the distance between it and the barrels of gunpowder over in that corner there…"

"_Gunpowder_? What the heck is UP with this Moriarty guy??" I demanded, unlocking Watson's cuffs and barely having time to finish my question before the man named Holmes grabbed my wrist and yanked me away towards the middle of the room.

"They will have heard that. Hurry up, Watson, we need to -" KABOOM! I dodged flying shrapnel. "- find the secret exit."

"Sorry to break it to you," I said, feeling rather like a small child's tug-toy as he dragged me to the other side of the room, "but this is a _dungeon_, and dungeons generally fail entirely to have secret exits. Um." The "um" was due to his kicking a wall support beam out of place, and this action consequently causing a section of the wall to swing open to reveal – what else? – a secret exit. "That was entirely too easy."

"I agree," said Watson, but neither of us had time to say more because just then the main door to the dungeon – the one that I'd been dragged in through – was kicked open, and a lot of yelling things like "FIRE!" and "THEY'RE ESCAPING!" and "WHAT?" and "AFTER THEM!" ensued. About five seconds later, it was all obscured by another explosion, but I didn't have to bother worrying about that one because Holmes was dragging me down the corridor that the secret exit had opened onto, with Watson bringing up our rear.

"Wherever the heck that hole led to, I don't think I like it here," I announced. "In all five minutes of my presence in this location, I have been manhandled, fallen down stairs, chained up, nearly blown up, and now dragged through a secret escape corridor, the very existence of which is unnerving and _wrong_, if anything I've ever seen and read about dungeons is correct. I suspect that this Moriarty person is either (A) mentally unhinged, or (B) actually _wants_ us to escape."

"Of course it's (B)," said the teenager-dragging menace known as Holmes. "He wouldn't get to have any fun if he killed me."

"Um, okay, that sounds weird, but you wouldn't have escaped if I hadn't been there, and I don't think he was expecting me to show up judging by the way he reacted when I showed up in his office."

**::FLASHBACK::**

It was a relatively short fall, though most of it was pitch-black. I kind of expected to land on something hard, so the landing wasn't entirely unexpected, but the "something hard" I had been expecting was more like rocks, and not a dangerously well-polished wooden floor on what appeared to be the second story of an older house. "Older" like 19th-century, but still somehow looking brand-new.

After recovering, I stood up and opened the first door I noticed. The man sitting at the desk in the room behind the door looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

"Uh, yo. I just fell through a hole in the street and ended up here, so if you could tell me where I am, that would seriously be appreciated, like, a lot –"

"MORAN! _GUARDS_! DETAIN THIS INVADER!"

"Whoa, invader, that's kinda harsh – HEY! LET GO!"

Which quickly led to being marched down several flights of stairs and into a dungeon.

**::END FLASHBACK::**

"That certainly does sound like you were unexpected," Watson agreed with me as I tried to pry my wrist out of Holmes's grip. We had stopped at the end of the corridor, where there was another (locked) door, and he had relieved me of another one of my hairpins and was currently busily engaged in picking the lock.

"Yes, doesn't it?" I looked up. "Say, this corridor is rather well-lit to be a supposedly secret exit."

"You're… right," Watson said slowly, taking in the gas lamps that were spaced at regular intervals on both walls. "Holmes?"

"Picking lock. Don't speak."

"For a supposedly brilliant man, you can be remarkably thickheaded at times!" Watson snapped. "What about those observation skills you so pride yourself on?"

"They're currently being ignored for the sake of advancing the plot. Now _shush_!"

Both of us blinked at him. "Eh?"

"Not… right… _now_." And he opened the door.

All the lamps in the corridor instantly went out.

* * *

**A3:** Yeah, Holmes knows about the plot. Fourth wall? What's that? :P And if the whole "character-being-aware-of-the-storyline" idea isn't your thing… ummm… don't give up on me? Please?

Also, if you think the Great Detective is being too spazzy… it's the RDJ version. SO THERE. Mixed with a bunch of the other versions as I see fit.

**???:** Mmrf! MMF! Grr!

**A3:** Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about you. Readers, say hello and welcome to the unofficial review-pleader… COLONEL SEBASTIAN MORAN! (Rips duct-tape off his mouth)

**Moran:** GUNS OF THE 54TH REGIMENT, WOMAN, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT HURTS IF YOU HAVE A MOUSTACHE??!

**A3:** Uh, no, no I don't. Anyway, you deserve it. Consider that your payback for trying to kill Holmes at Reichenbach Falls.

**Moran:** (Snort) My "payback" for that was ENDING UP IN JAIL, if you will ever so kindly recall.

**A3:** Yeahhh, because YOU, the (airquotes) "great hunter" (end airquotes), got FOOLED by a CARDBOARD CUTOUT.

**Moran:** What's cardboard?

**A3:** …You're right, it wasn't cardboard. Wrong fandom. A WAX BUST, that's it. You got OWNED by a Sherlock Holmes MOCK-UP.

**Moran:** I think I hate you.

**A3:** Hate and anger lead to the Dark Side. RESIST!

**Moran:** You escaped from that one insane asylum, didn't you??

**A3:** Pff, I didn't ESCAPE. No one's caught me. …Yet. NOW ASK NICELY FOR REVIEWS AND I'LL GIVE YOU A COOKIE.

**Moran:** So who else thinks she's batty?

**A3:** …Close enough. (Throws a biscotti at his head) Those are good with coffee. Improve your attitude and eventually you'll level up to CHOCOLATE CHIPS.


	3. Big Dogs Like Biscuits

**Opening Authoressial Note:** Insanely short chapter alert. BUT AT LEAST IT'S A NEW ONE! Woot. (Happy dance)

Um. I feel like I really ought to say something interesting here. …JELLY BEANS.

Also, thank you for all the reviews up to this point! They really make me happy, you guys! :)

**Disclaimer: **AW COME ON. Are they public domain yet? …Yes/no? I have no idea. And I'm up way too early… or maybe late… depending… to think about it. FINE. They're not mine. BE THAT WAY YOU… PEOPLE.

* * *

As it turned out, Watson and I had both been right. Taking the not-so-secret escape corridor had been a BAD IDEA.

The door opened onto a corridor populated by three dogs, each the size of a smallish workhorse and all slavering whilst looking thoroughly starved and mean.

"AHA!" Holmes crowed triumphantly, rather than wilting in defeat as I had rather been expecting him to do. "This is exactly what I was expecting! There will likely be armed guards beyond this point, placed in order to deal with the highly improbable situation of us crossing this courtyard alive. We need a _distraction_!"

I thought for a moment, then turned to Watson. "This is probably really rude of me to ask since we just met and everything, but I think the circumstances are deserving: is your friend mentally unhinged?"

Watson thought a moment. "He's not… crazy, no. Just different. He's brilliant, mind you," he added.

"Being brilliant does not change the fact that the guy in front of us trying to make friends with several angry, hungry dogs is a row of buttons short of a peacoat. Hey! Holmes, or whatever your name is!" I wrenched my wrist from his grasp and shoved him aside. "Look, I'll distract them. I'm good with dogs. You guys make it out and deal with the guards, I'll catch up."

"Are you sure?" Watson asked. "You're only a girl -"

"Don't be sexist, pretty-boy. Of course I'm not going up against them unarmed. Now go!" And with that, I burst past Holmes and out into the courtyard.

Instantly I veered to the left. All the dogs' attention was focused on me. Before I was mauled by strange animals, I dug some biscuits out of my pocket and held them up in plain view.

"HEY! Hey, mutts! Lookie what I got here! Yeah? Biscuits! Cookies! Nummies! FOOD!" That last one got their attention. "Yeah, yeah, _fooooood_. Here! You can have it if you listen to me, 'kay? Sit!"

All three sat.

"Thank goodness for well-trained guard dogs," I said happily. "Okay. Now stay… stayyy… STAAAYYYYY…" I moved slowly backwards, towards the sound of hand-to-hand combat that was issuing from behind me. "Goooood dogs. _Keep_ staying. Okay… free dogs!" With that, I dropped the biscuits, whirled around, and shot through the gate on the far side of the courtyard, slamming it behind myself to be safe – even though there really wasn't a need to; the dogs were happily munching on my biscuits. Which were now undeniably _their_ biscuits. I certainly wasn't going back in there to debate ownership.

"Whew." I turned around just in time to see Watson deck the last remaining guard. "Ducky job, guys! Teamwork is the win. So, what now, Holmes?" He was apparently our leader.

He raised one eyebrow at me. "What do you mean, 'what now'? We're out. We've escaped. Now we hail a cab and return to Baker Street."

"Uh… oh. Okay." I trotted after him. "Can I come?"

"No."

"Cool – I mean, HEY! WHAT? Dude, I _escaped_ with you! You can't just LEAVE me here! COME ON! We're like, a TEAM!"

"She did make it possible for us to get past the dogs," Watson pointed out. "It would be terribly discourteous of us to simply leave her here."

Holmes narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a long moment. I stared back. Then, abruptly:

"Oh, very well. She can come. Follow us in another cab," he said.

"Right," I said, and then we emerged onto the street and I staggered to a halt. This was chiefly because I was suffering from the shock of realizing that I wasn't being delusional by thinking that everything _looked_ 19th-century; this WAS the 19th century. This was quite well evidenced by the fact that there were no cars or big neon signs or electric lights in sight. There were horse-drawn carriages and grimy little boys darting around and well-dressed women being helped across the street by equally well-dressed men, and utterly NO ONE was wearing the standard summertime T-shirt/jeans/sneakers combination except me.

It was kind of like having a dream where you go out in public without any clothes on, except somehow worse. I'd never been a particularly self-conscious person; all of a sudden all the self-consciousness I'd never felt came crashing down on me like a gazillion tons of solid steel.

"Help," I whimpered, only to realize that while I'd been suffering time-warp shock (it's kind of like culture shock, only much, much worse), Holmes and Watson had caught their cab and were long gone.

"G… g… GAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

* * *

**A3:** …I really have nothing to say to this except WHO ELSE THINKS THAT WAS TOO EASY. Of course, Moriarty's not done with them yet.

**Moran:** Since you seem to have direct access to the Professor, could I send him a telegram?

**A3:** …(STARE) Mayyyybbeeeee… I'm going to look at it after you write it though.

**Moran:** (Smirk) That's _fine_.

(Five minutes later)

**A3:** (Reading) "Dear Professor, you promised me dessert so please send me some of those delicious cookies. Signed, The Other M."

**Moran:** See? Nothing harmful.

**A3:** …This is so very obviously code.

**Moran:** And what if it is? You'll never be able to decipher it.

**A3:** (Crumples the telegram and throws it away) Obviously you're asking him to bring you a weapon of some sort, probably your air gun.

**Moran:** O.o ARE YOU SHERLOCK HOLMES'S PRODIGY OR SOMETHING?

**A3:** No. You just fail at writing codes. Comes of spending most of your adult life out in direct sunlight hunting tigers. Loud noise and UV rays, man, that'll do it. Not to mention all that testosterone…

**Moran:** (Sob) I HAVE FAILED YOU PROFESSOR!

**A3:** There, there. I'm better than he is, anyway. Now why don't you ask for reviews? Those will make you feel better.

**Moran:** I'M HAVING AN ANGST MOMENT RIGHT NOW SO PLEASE GO AWAY.

**A3:** …That was code for "please leave a review." Really. It was.

**Moran:** IT WAS –

**A3:** (Stifles him) Hush, you.


	4. In Which An Inspector Is Mean To Me

**Opening Authoressial Note:** Hello again! I'm back at last, and I bet you're all wondering what happened to our heroine after she was abandoned in the middle of London by H and W. Well… YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT. :D

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock Holmes. BUT DON'T TELL ANYONE. ...I don't own AXE either. Thank goodness for that. AXE smells funny.

* * *

Being arrested for public indecency is not fun. Especially when what you're wearing wasn't INDECENT to begin with – at least, not in THE PROPER CENTURY.

I tried my very best to explain this to the police officer who had dragged me down to what was apparently the 19th-century equivalent of Scotland Yard and shoved me into an empty but obviously inhabited office with a dire promise of "the inspector will be in to see you shortly," but 19th-century cops are apparently not hardwired to listen to 17-year-old girls in T-shirts. What they _are_ hardwired to do, _apparently_, is manhandle them and refer to them as "harlots" and "a disgrace to society."

I think I resent 19th-century Scotland Yardians. Especially that one.

I hadn't been sitting on the desk and staring blankly at the walls for very long when the door swung open and a tall, scarily thin, ferrety-type man entered, snapping the door shut crisply behind him. There was something squinty about his eyes that vaguely annoyed me. The squinty look disappeared briefly when he noticed that I was sitting on the desk.

"Hi," I said, launching into the conversation. "I'm Lukas, yes I'm a girl, this isn't considered indecent attire where I come from, I resent being called a harlot, and I want out of this dark room that smells distinctly of MAN in a time before AXE was invented."

He stared at me for a long moment before finally speaking. "The axe _has_ been invented, and around for a very long time." His tone was that of someone who longed to ask me what hole I'd been living in for the past kajillion years, but was forcefully restraining themselves for the sake of politeness.

"Ha. Wrong AXE, smarty-pants." I tilted my head to one side and pursed my lips in irritation as my bangs (now minus two or three bobby pins) fell in front of my eye. "So. You must be the 'inspector' that guy was talking about."

"Indeed I am."

There was a brief silence.

"I think you should know that your subordinate called me mean names. I am neither a harlot nor a disgrace. You may not believe me, but this is considered normal and, in fact, exceptionally _modest_ dress where I come from!"

The inspector smiled in a painfully obviously condescending way, moving over to stand behind the chair in front of the desk (the one I was _supposed_ to be sitting in) but making no move to sit down.

"And where _do_ you come from, Miss…?"

"Here," I responded, blatantly ignoring his not-clearly-stated request for my name, which he had apparently already forgotten. After all, he hadn't told me HIS name. "London, England. Except like… the 200-years-older version."

"Mm-hmm," he said, pulling out a notepad and a pencil and jotting something down. I stared at it pointedly. "And how did you end up here?"

"I already told someone that and they didn't take it too well," I bit out. "In fact, they threw me in a dungeon. And I fell down the stairs in a _truly_ valiant attempt to fight off my attackers, but I _still_ ended up being chained to a wall. In fact, if you knew what I'd already _been_ through today, _including_ being abandoned -"

He looked up sharply. "Abandoned?" His gaze softened. "Are you… an orphan?"

"Uh. No," I said, slightly unnerved by his sudden change in attitude. "No, when I said 'abandoned,' I meant that the two men I was hanging out with ditched me and rode off in a cab -"

His expression got very earnest. "That is not the only choice you can make with your life! I know it seems hard, but couldn't you just… sell flowers on a street corner or something? Anything but THAT! And besides," he added, going all stern on me, "it's illegal."

I stared at him blankly until the figurative mental light-bulb turned on.

"OH! No way, dude, no, you've got it all wrong. Remember that dungeon I mentioned? Well, there were these two guys in that dungeon, and -"

"Ah, I see." His expression hardened, and he leaned forward. "You're making up a story to distract me. Well, make no mistake, young lady! You _will_ be brought up on charges of -"

"Ex-CUSE me?" I snapped. "I'm NOT lying! I can give you the names of the guys I was being held prisoner with!"

"Oh, can you now." His tone of voice and expression reeked of sarcasm.

"YEAH I CAN. Their names were Dr. Watson and Ho -"

"More ridiculous fabrications," he cut me off. "You truly expect me to believe that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson spent the morning imprisoned in a dungeon with _you_?"

"Well, _yeah_! It's not like they could have done anything about it!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then the inspector snapped his little notebook shut.

"No matter what you say, I am drawing you up on the charge of being publicly indecent."

"You think THIS is public indecency?" I yelped incredulously. "You ought to see XXX-XXX!" Celebrity names have been censored to protect the not-so-innocent. …And prevent lawsuits.

"Never heard of her. Now are you going to pay the fine, or do I have to make you spend a night in jail?"

I considered my chances of getting out of everything if I burst into hysterical tears and determined that they were pretty much slim and none. "I DON'T THINK I LIKE YOU VERY MUCH."

"Nor I you, you may be assured," he said grimly. "Answer the question."

"I can't," I muttered. There was another silence.

"You can't _what_?"

"I can't pay the fine," I clarified. Which was true. I had money, sure, but somehow I suspected that greenbacks wouldn't cut it in the Victorian era. Unless they were sold to a museum, or a little shop of curiosities.

A triumphant little smirk twisted his lips. "I guess it's the jail cell for you then, missy."

As I attempted to quell the fountain of anxiety welling up in me – can you _imagine_ how unsanitary 19th-century prisons must be? – someone kicked the office door in. Not _down_; just _in_. Ruined a perfectly good doorknob, too.

"Excuse me," said Dr. John Watson, "but we have a better idea."

* * *

**A3:** No, Watson is not using the Royal We; Holmes is there with him. And OH MY GOSH I love cliffhangers, can you tell?

**Moran:** I suspect it was Mr. Green in the library with the revolver!

**A3:** 'Scuse me for a sec, I've been introducing Moran to board games. M, ducky, see I've _got_ the revolver card, I've shown it to you twice already. It's not the revolver.

**Moran:** OF COURSE IT IS! It can't be any of the OTHER weapons! I mean, you can't kill someone with a _candlestick_! Unless… you were to stuff it down their throat…

**A3:** It's called "blunt force trauma." I'm sure if you hit someone hard enough in the head with a candlestick that was made of some sort of fairly substantial material, you could kill them.

**Moran:** Really? …Let's try it.

**A3:** LET'S NOT AND SAY WE DID. Now then, be a nice mustachioed villainous sidekick and ask for reviews.

**Moran:** Not until you confess. I know your type. You're trying to trick me. HE WAS KILLED WITH A REVOLVER AND YOU KNOW IT.

**A3:** …For a guy who plays poker you kind of suck at this. Here, I'll prove it to you. I was gonna go easy on you, but… (rolls dice, moves character) I ACCUSE COLONEL MUSTARD IN THE LIBRARY WITH THE WRENCH!

**Moran: **Oh, so now you're picking on men of my profession? I thought you a better person than that!

**A3:** Oh shut up. Give me the file with the cards.

**Moran:** No. You're hiding the true weapon and accusing the wrong person.

**A3:** (Grating) Well, if you _give me the cards_, we'll find out who's right.

**Moran:** I'm right. I'm ALWAYS right. It's why Moriarty hired me.

**A3:** Really? 'Cuz I thought it was due to your being childhood friends.

**Moran:** SHUT UP THAT'S CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION!

**A3:** Yeah yeah, whatever. Okay, time to wrap this up. Hi reviewers and readers, I love you all, so does Moran (but he won't admit it)! REVIEWS ARE LIKE CHOCOLATE! …They're addicting.

**Moran:** Chocolate's not –

**A3:** You're not a girl, you wouldn't know. Now be quiet until next chapter.


	5. A Job and a Place to Live

**Opening Authoressial Note:** HIIII I'm kinda hyper right now and not at my most coherent… so… I'LL LET YOU GET TO IT THEN. (Scrambles off)

(Scrambles back) Wait, I forgot to point out: the following chapter is highly unrealistic. A single girl would not share a set of rooms with a single man. BUT, this is chiefly a humor fic and so for the sake of the genre I am abandoning all that I know about Victorian etiquette. ...Well, not ALL that I know. But anything that gets in my way. (Evil grin)

**Disclaimer:** THEY'RE MINE IT'S ALL MINE MINE MINE MINE okay no. (Dreamy look) But it would be nice if they were…

Oh HEY, wait. Lukas is mine. SO THERE. (Maniacal cackle of triumph)

I'm done now. Carry on.

* * *

"Leave me ALONE."

"No! Come back! We need to get to know each other better!" I cried, chasing after my new superior officer and roommate.

Ooh, wait. I should probably back up a bit.

See, the "idea" from last chapter, courtesy of Holmes and Watson, had been that Lestrade (that was the inspector's name) _not_ arrest me because I couldn't pay off the fine with money.

"Instead," Holmes had said, "let her pay it off with her body."

This had caused Lestrade to very nearly have an aneurism until Watson hastily stepped in to explain (with a death glare at his wild-haired companion) that Lestrade had the wrong idea. What Holmes had meant, apparently, was that I _work_ for Lestrade for a set period of time, and that would take the place of the money.

Lestrade had not been keen on this idea. Having determined that I very definitely disliked him, neither had I. But I hadn't voiced my un-keen-ness, since working for a cop was infinitely better than being thrown in a prison cell by a cop. After a bit of forceful convincing on Watson's part, Lestrade finally caved.

Then Holmes launched the second part of the "better idea," which was that I live with the detective.

"I know you live alone, Lestrade, and that you've been looking for someone to share the rent with. Should your new 'office assistant' go above and beyond the call of duty, perhaps the Yard would consider giving her a small allowance for her troubles, in which case she could easily afford to stay there with you."

Again, this was an idea that neither of us were keen on, though I less so than Lestrade – I _did_ need a place to stay, after all. But on the other hand, it had been thoroughly pounded into my head from an early age that _thou shalt not speak to strangers_, much less LIVE with them.

Then again, I decided brightly, he worked for the police. He couldn't be THAT bad.

Lestrade, on the other hand, had no such assurances about me.

"Are you clinically INSANE? For all we know, public indecency could be only one of _far_ more crimes and violations that she has committed! I mean – she could be a _killer_!"

Hm. Seems like his mother gave him the "strangers are bad" talk too. Good for her! …But it wasn't helping my case much.

Watson came to stand behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. "Lestrade. Have you ever seen this girl before?"

He eyed me as one might eye a supposedly tame something with a reputation for jumping out and eating people's faces when found in its natural wilderness habitat. "No."

"Have you ever seen _clothes_ like hers before?"

"Well… no."

"And Lestrade, have you ever even heard of anyone like her before?"

His face began to take on an expression suspiciously similar to that of a pout. "No."

"Then I would be fairly accurate to say that she is NOT, in fact, a notorious criminal, much less a killer. Besides, even I can tell you that if she WAS a killer, she would hardly allow herself to be caught by getting arrested for public indecency."

AHA! He had him there. I grinned triumphantly.

"So does this mean I have a new home?"

* * *

Lestrade's home was suspiciously clean for the residence of a bachelor. His landlady (who also did the cleaning, I later learned) was ecstatic at the thought of having a new resident, much less a _female_ one, and agreed to find "proper" clothes for me right away. Meanwhile, Lestrade showed me my room and proceeded to rant at me about what I was and wasn't allowed to do and touch. The stuff I was allowed to touch (like furniture) was infinitely less interesting than the stuff I WASN'T allowed to touch (that stack of criminal files on the desk).

I was well into the biographical blurb that told a highly abridged life story of John Steeth, who was wanted for stealing some kind of supremely expensive statue, when Lestrade re-entered the room and nearly had a heart attack.

"Why are you – I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH THOSE!" Shooting across the room, he snatched the file from my hand and stuffed it back into the Eiffel Tower of files on his desk.

"I know. That's why I touched them."

He glared at me. I stared innocently back.

"What? That's like, the cardinal rule of life, man. Someone tells you not to do something, what do you do?"

"I DON'T DO IT, OBVIOUSLY."

"Well then, you must be from a different planet, because here on Earth 'don't touch that' translates to 'touch it all you want, poke it, flip through it, cuddle it, lick it, take it home and call it Bob.' See? This file," here I picked up another one, "is now named Bob." I flipped it open. "Imagine that! Bob McCallister, wanted for petty theft and larceny – aren't those like the same HEY! Ow! You gave me a papercut." I stuck my wounded finger in my mouth and sucked on it. "Apologize."

"I bloody well will not. You touched my things."

"YOU TOLD ME TO TOUCH THEM!"

"I did not! I told you _not_ to touch them!"

"It's the same _thing_! Do you not get this? Do I have to go over it again?"

He threw his hands up in the air. "_How do they expect me to live with you_?"

"Don't worry, Lestrade. We shall peacefully co-exist. Like… zen. Hippie zen."

He gave me an odd look. "What's a hippie?"

"OH THAT'S RIIIGHT, those haven't been invented yet. Okay. Um. You know those Tibetan monks? That kind of zen. Feel the zen, Lestrade!"

"I feel annoyed." He began to stalk out of the room.

"Wait! No! COME BACK! _YOU'RE DISRUPTING MY CHI_!"

* * *

**A3:** HIII this was not written on highly caffeinated beverages. It was written on YOUTUBE. Which is worse.

**Moran:** It's calling you a "tube." Why do so many people frequent this site when it's INSULTING THEM?

**A3:** Because it's awesome. What are you doing on there anyway? GET OFF MY COMPUTER!

**Moran:** I've been on here for the past half-hour, there's no stopping me now. Why do the only videos of Moriarty on here consist of him being thrown off a cliff by THAT PERSON? And why am I not in any of them?

**A3:** Because no one likes Moriarty. He's creepy.

**Moran:** _I_ like Moriarty!

**A3:** Yes, but you WORK for him.

**Moran:** SO?

**A3:** So… he gives you MONEY… and people tend to like people who give them money…

**Moran:** (Shrieks)

**A3:** What? What is it? That was a terribly un-manly sound for you to make.

**Moran:** (Strained) Typed in… "Sherlock Holmes"… thirty-five thousand and SEVEN HUNDRED videos…

**A3:** Oh. Well, yeah, he's kind of popular.

**Moran: **(Chokes)

**A3:** No, no, don't choke. Ask for reviews.

**Moran:** THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND AND SEVEN HUNDRED!

**A3:** Yeah, well, if that freaks you out then you should see the number of fanfictions people have written for him. …Or maybe you shouldn't. (Nudges him with foot) Hunh. He passed out. Well, I guess it's up to me then. If you leave me reviews, I'll splash them on Moran to wake him up!


	6. Holmes Again, and Hey! A Puppy!

**Opening Authoressial Note:** Yo! What's up, all you wonderful people? Thank you all so much for your reviews! They were splashed liberally on Moran's face. He is now drenched and unhappy, but awake, so look forward to that in the EANs.

Oh, and by the way, I'm curious - anything in particular you guys would like to see happen? I can't promise it will make its way into the story, but I'd like to hear your ideas all the same. :)

In other news, this is the chapter wherein you learn what our heroine's new outfit looks like, and in which Holmes makes an appearance, albeit a fairly brief one. Don't worry; you'll get to see more of him later.

**Disclaimer:** …HI, my name is Triple A and I don't own Sherlock Holmes. I still don't even have the new movie. OH HOW VERY DEPRESSING.

* * *

One fine day (not that I would _know_ if it was really fine or not, since I'd been woken up before it was light outside and hauled off to the police station and put to work in a windowless, dusty room), I was at the police station organizing files in the aforementioned windowless, dusty room. I was putting these files in alphabetical order. This was a long, boring, thankless job, since no one had organized the files in a very. Long. Time.

I was considering the pros and cons of experiencing a homicidal break when someone knocked on the door of the dismal, windowless, dusty room and then opened it, poking his head in.

"Excuse me, but someone's looking for you up – _what happened to you_?"

"Dust bunnies," I said grimly. "Vicious little things."

"…Oh. Well, uh, anyway, someone's looking for you up front."

" 'Kay. Thanks." Standing up, I took a step forward, tripped, and knocked over a stack of JUST-ORGANIZED files. "…Never mind. I'm going to commit seppuku."

The officer looked at me in concern. "Here, I'll fix that for you while you're gone, alright? When you come back it will be just the way you left it."

"You, sir, are a wonderful and kind person. Would you like a hug? Of course you would." I gave him a quick glomp, which made him yelp, and then I headed down the hall, calling "thank you" over my shoulder.

As I rounded the corner, I went into Sneaky Ninja Mode. This was partly because it was fun, and partly because I suspected that this person who wanted to see me was a kidnapper hired by Lestrade to get rid of me _once and for all_. Not that the man hated me or anything, and since the Yard _had_ started giving me an allowance I _was_ able to pay my part of the rent… but I'm fairly sure his life had been a lot calmer before I showed up.

"Especially after the cake incident," I murmured, inching around another corner.

"What cake incident?"

Being caught while in Sneaky Ninja Mode is thoroughly unacceptable, and recognizing this to be so I attempted to make a break for it, but Watson grabbed the collar of my shirt, rendering me incapable of escape. "Where are you going? Didn't you come up here to meet me?"

"Maybe," I said, turning to look at him. "Why? Are you the person who was looking for me?"

"Indeed."

"Ah, well, that's okay then."

He gave me a look that said very clearly "you're strange," but said no more on the subject. "I need you to come back to Baker Street with me. Holmes is busy, or he would have come to fetch you himself."

"Oh? Why, what's up?" I asked, trotting after him out the door.

"Well, I'm not sure. When he came to breakfast this morning he looked rather blank and seemed to be worrying about 'the plot' again. Then he revived abruptly about fifteen minutes ago and began scrawling madly on his blackboard prior to demanding that I go to Scotland Yard and not return without you."

"Um, okay. But if things start exploding again, I'm gone."

* * *

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes had been lurking in wait for our arrival. As soon as I set foot through the door, he seized my wrist and began to drag me up the flight of stairs directly in front of us.

"Wha – HEY! Dude, we really need to talk about this 'manhandling the innocent bystander' thing!"

He didn't speak until we had entered a large room with a whole lot of stuff that was obviously one of those sitting-room thingies. Holmes threw me into a large wing-backed chair that was directly facing a huge blackboard that took up a good bit of the wall space, and began to speak.

"Five chapters in and no obvious plot as of yet. This is deeply worrisome. Also, there seems to be a danger that Watson and I might become minor characters in a storyline that revolves exclusively around the adventures of yourself and the inspector. _This cannot happen_. In part, this is my fault, since I left you behind and you got arrested for indecent exposure, which ultimately led to your living and working with the man. BUT!" He swung around and pointed at me. I stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Yes?"

"There is still a chance. We just need something to happen. Something plot-creating." He took a deep breath. "That is all."

Long pause.

"…Really?"

"Yes." Snatching up a piece of chalk, he began to scrawl on the blackboard again. Assuming this to be a dismissal, I stood up and permitted Watson to see me out.

"Well, that made no sense," I muttered as we stepped out the door. "Seriously, have you ever considered getting him mental help?"

"Every single day," Watson murmured in only half-audible tones, so I didn't comment.

When he tried to catch me a cab, I demurred. "The Yard's not too far away. It's a pretty day; I'll walk."

"Are you sure? Very well then. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"You're quite welcome." And I tripped off down the street.

I caught a few odd looks on my way back to the Yard. Since I had staunchly and absolutely refused to wear a dress, much less a corset, Lestrade's landlady had put together a mish-mosh of an outfit for me. First there was a green plaid-ish coat with a large collar and lapels, which tucked in nicely at my waist only to flare out again behind my legs. I still wore my T-shirt, but there was a pinstripe vest over it, and with the coat on you couldn't tell that it was a T-shirt. Finally, a pair of long black pants with barely noticeable pinstripes covered my legs, and my sneakers completed the outfit. My only accessories, really, were a pair of black gloves that it was apparently of top importance to wear when out in public, and a black fedora that I didn't wear half the time and was in fact still in my room at Lestrade's house.

The walk turned out to be longer than I had expected, and so I permitted my mind to wander to less boring things like what _were_ the lyrics of that one Billy Joel song, and oh look a puppy, and it rather looked like rain and if it _did_ rain I was going to walk into Scotland Yard and drip on Lestrade's office floor, and HEY, someone was getting out of that carriage that had just pulled up next to me.

I straightened up from petting the puppy and smiled at the newcomer. "Yo, 'sup? Do you need direc – OH MY CHEESE AND CRACKERS, _YOU_!"

"Oh, so you remember me?" said the once-flunky-now-sidekick who had been guilty of chaining me to a wall almost immediately after my arrival in 19th-century England.

"Of course I remember you, I tend to remember people who shackle me to large brick walls. What was your name again? Morton? Morgan? Oh, whatever. This is dumb, I should be screaming for help."

"Indeed you should," he agreed with me. "And by the way: it's _Moran_."

He then proceeded to whack me in the head with his pistol. I crumpled to the ground and had a brief moment of being conscious while enduring blinding pain, during which moment I saw several goldfish swimming through the air before my eyes. I suspect this was a hallucination.

And then I'm pretty sure that flash of blackness was me passing out.

* * *

**A3:** First, if you didn't read the Opening Authoressial Note, go read it. Next, feel free to continue reading this.

**Moran:** How can I be HERE but in the STORY at the same time?

**A3:** (Without missing a beat) Suspension of disbelief. I thought I gave you dry clothes to change into! Go change. (Shoos him off) SO, yeah, I'm working on this plot-thingy. Yay, fun!

**Moran:** (Re-enters) Was that sarcasm I heard?

**A3:** No, that was enthusiasm – WHOA. Dude. Stop right there. Where's my camera?

**Moran:** (Confused) What? I'm just wearing the clothes you gave me.

**A3:** I KNOW! You look… AHMAYZHING. And MODERN. It's kind of creepy, but awesome at the same time. (Lady Gaga's "Fashion" begins to play in the background) Especially since it's just a cashmere turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans.

**Moran:** (Begins to pull on black leather gloves) I don't see what the big deal is. It's simply clothing. Now, I wish for you to explain this "suspension of disbelief" to me in greater detail. If it allows one person to be in two places at the same time, it could be astonishingly helpful in assisting the Professor and I to commit crimes.

**A3:** Actually, sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn't work that way.

**Moran:** Wha – what do you _mean_ "it doesn't work that way?" You just SAID –

**A3:** (Clamps hand over his mouth) Anyone who reviews gets to glomp 21st-century-clothed Moran.

**Moran:** Eh? What? What is this "glomping" you speak of?

**A3:** …Ever play rugby?

**Moran:** No, I wasn't much of a team player. Why do you ask?

**A3:** (COUGH) No reason.


	7. What Ho, James and Frederick

**Opening Authoressial Note:** Hello, duckies! I hope you're all having splendiferous days. If you're not, then go get a hug from someone. I believe in hug therapy. It's great stuff. Come back when you're feeling better. :)

**Disclaimer:** OH, how to make this interesting. A brief poem, perhaps? _I do not own Sherlock Holmes/Sherlock Holmes is not mine/And that is how you spice up a disclaimer/By attempting to make the thing rhyme_.

Other stuff I don't own includes Spongebob Squarepants, _Happy Feet_, and LotR.

* * *

"OW," I said loudly, in order to let my captors know that I did not appreciate being tied up, blindfolded, and then dropped on a cold stone floor. "I was under the impression that you 19th-century chaps were big on chivalry. THIS IS NOT CHIVALROUS. Neither was whanging me in the head earlier, I'll have you know."

"Is this the face of a person who cares?" Moran muttered rhetorically.

"I WOULDN'T KNOW. I'm BLINDFOLDED."

"I wasn't talking to you," he responded shortly.

"Well, who _were_ you talking to then? Yourself? 'Cuz I'll have you know that's the mark of a CRAZY person."

He huffed and stalked off, slamming a door behind him. I promptly began to squirm in my restraints, but _dang_ that rope was tight. When my best efforts proved fruitless, I gave up with an irritated huff.

"I find this EXTREMELY irritating. I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO THE PERSON IN CHARGE!"

Resounding silence.

"…If you do NOT let me speak to the person in charge, I WILL START SINGING _SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS_ SONGS."

More resounding silence.

"You have been warned!"

No reaction.

"Okay, that's it. _**Let's gather 'round the campfire, and sing our campfire song! Our C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G song! And if you don't think that we can sing it faster, then you're wrong! But it'll help if you just sing along…**_"

On my third time around with that one, the door slammed open and footsteps stomped across the floor. Before I could figure out what was going on, a hand grabbed me by the front of my shirt and hoisted me up into the air.

"If you speak another word I will personally feed you to the ravenous bloodthirsty guard dogs. Do you understand?"

I squeaked.

"Excellent." Moran dropped me and left again.

Meh. So dark. So lonely. …So QUIET.

So. Painfully. DULL.

I decided to get up and try to find something to cut my bonds against. So I laboriously got to my feet (hey, don't laugh – ever tried to get up off the floor with your arms tied behind your back? NOT EASY) and took a step forward.

When nothing happened, I took a few more cautious steps forward. This led to me aimlessly wandering slowly about the room, until something caught my attention.

"Oi! I smell FOOD." More wandering, this time less aimless as I followed the scent of yummyful goodness. Eventually, this wandering-with-a-purpose led me to a door.

Feeling resentful that I couldn't open it, I kicked it. Nothing happened. So, I kicked it again. And again. AND YET AGAIN.

Muffled voices began to filter through from the opposite side of the door. "I say, James, do you hear something?"

"Eh? No. 'S probably a rat."

"I RESENT THAT," I said loudly.

"Doesn't sound like a rat. Sounds more kind of like someone's locked in the old storeroom."

To encourage the not-James in his theory, I kicked the door several more times with renewed enthusiasm.

"Could be a BIG rat," James theorized.

Clearly, James was brainless. Feeling determined to prove him wrong, I flung myself bodily against the door. Unfortunately, I managed to do this at the exact same moment as someone opened it from the other side.

You would think this would lead to the comical result of me flying headlong into the room (suspected to be a kitchen) beyond. And that's exactly what would have happened, had the door been an _outward-opening_ door. But no. It opened inward. Which meant that at the exact same time I was headed towards it, the door was headed towards my face.

"OW. OW. OW." Having never had my nose broken before, I had no idea what it felt like, but I was pretty sure this was it. "THE PAIN!"

"Great Scott, James! I was right! Someone _was_ locked in the storeroom! Quickly, fetch a towel, I'm rather afraid she – he – er – it – I'm terribly sorry, but what gender are you?"

"GIRL. OW!"

"Right. _She's_ bleeding rather a lot, I'm afraid she's injured!"

Blood? Blood was good. No, wait. Blood was BAD. But did blood mean my nose wasn't broken after all? I had no idea.

"I need you to move your hands. Here." Something too soft and plushy for the century made contact with my face. "Can you stand?"

"NO." The pain in my face was limiting me to a monosyllabic vocabulary. "OW. SO MUCH OW."

"Right." I was suddenly being picked up in a pair of strange arms. "James, clear that table."

There was the enormous clatter of numerous items being swept off a solid object onto the floor, and then I was sitting on what I assumed was the aforementioned solid object as someone cut the bonds off my wrists.

"Can you hold that towel to your nose, now? Alright. I'm going to remove your blindfold." Hands came up to my face and slipped the fabric from my eyes.

Finally able to see my savior, I noted that he was not bad-looking, with tousled blonde hair and bright blue eyes that popped against his pale skin. He looked kind of scrawny to have picked me up and carried me any sort of distance, though; this image was only reinforced by the apron he was wearing.

"Hello," he said. "My name is Frederick. Frederick Carter, actually. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

Scrawny though he may have been, he practically bled good manners and etiquette. "Yo," I said, still monosyllabic. "Luk."

"Is that your name?" At my nod, he beamed. "Then it's a pleasure to meet you, _Luk_."

I decided to try multiple-syllable words. "Exposition. Cheesecake. Indefatigable. Inconceivable! Lucid. Prescient. OKAY, I'm all better! Ow." While multiple syllables were a go, volume was not. "Is my nose broken?"

"I don't know. Do you mind if I have a look?"

"No. Not at all. Go right ahead."

He smiled and brought up his hands to PROD AT MY NOSE. My injured, still-BLEEDING nose.

"OW! ASSASSIN!"

He winced. "I assure you, my intentions are not murderous. I need to do this in order to feel for any bones that might be out of place. I am terribly sorry for any pain I may be causing you."

"…Yeah, well, since you're being nice about it, I'll let you off this one time."

"Here. A fresh towel."

I yelped in startlement at the sound of the quiet voice so close to my ear. Looking to my right, I found its owner – a boy much taller than Frederick, with jet-black hair that fell in his face and obscured one of his eyes. The one that I could see was colored an abnormally brilliant acid-green. He wasn't as pale as Frederick, and had noticeable freckles.

"Thanks," I said. "I guess you must be James? I heard you guys talking through the door."

"Yeah."

"Lovely." I smiled, tilting my head to one side; then my hand shot out and seized him by the front of his shirt, dragging him close. "Now, James, I ask you: _what kind of rat makes that much noise?_"

He stared at me, fear flickering in his visible eye despite the fact that he was fairly well muscled and could have taken me on no problem. "Er."

"EXACTLY! So the next time you hear thumping in the walls, _it's not a bloody rat_, got it?" He nodded. "Good."

I let him go, and he skittered away into a different section of the kitchen. Meanwhile, my nose had started bleeding again, and with a huff of irritation I applied the fresh towel to the task of stopping the flow.

Frederick was staring at me. "Are you _sure_ you're a girl?"

"Can you seriously not tell my gender?" I demanded.

"Well… you are _dressed_ like a boy, and you certainly don't act like any female I've ever met before – no offense intended," he began to backtrack frantically. "Er – um – but if you say you're a girl then I believe you."

Before I could respond, he changed the subject. "So how did you end up in the storeroom? That's the OLD storeroom, anyway; we don't use that one anymore. We, um, have a bigger, better one now."

Oh, great. So I wasn't even worthy of being held captive in a DECENT storeroom? Moran was SO getting his butt kicked. "Well, I could _not_ tell you guys, but I guess if you do work for that guy, then I'll be busted pretty quick anyway, so here goes.

"Long story short, I was on my way back to the place I kinda-sorta work at when _that guy_ showed up and whanged me in the head with a… gun, I think. And then I woke up in that room, and I was tied up and blindfolded, and I started singing but then he came in and threatened to feed me to the ravenous guard dogs, so I shut up. And THEN… I got bored and started wandering around, and I heard you guys, and –" Frederick had his hand raised. "Yes?"

"Forgive me for interrupting, but… who's _he_?"

"OH. Yeah. Um. He's got this name that he's really sensitive about, probably 'cuz I keep getting it wrong." Man. I knew it _just a second_ ago. "Morton?"

Frederick's already pale face paled some more. "M-maybe you mean… _Moran_?"

"That sounds about right, yeah! Why, you know him?"

Before Frederick could answer my question, the sound of a familiar voice shouting came from nearby. Frederick's almost-answer turned into a strangled noise similar to something you might hear issuing from the throat of a drowning cat, and almost before I knew what was happening, arms had grabbed me from behind and whisked me over to the island in the center of the kitchen.

"Eh? What's –" That was all I managed to get out before James snapped open a cabinet door in the island and shoved me into the space behind it. "OI!"

"Stay in there and stay quiet if you wanna live," he informed me shortly before closing the door in my face.

So quiet. So dark. SO LONELY.

I heard the sound of a door opening, and then Morgan – no, Moran's – voice. "No, it's impossible. This entrance to the storeroom was sealed up years ago – well, it's worth a try. Hey, either of you two – have you seen someone come through here? A strangely dressed girl?"

"Um, could you define 'strangely dressed,' please, sir -"

There was a dull sort of crack, followed by Moran proclaiming Frederick to be useless and then storming out. I waited for about five seconds before kicking the cabinet door open and scrambling out of my impromptu hiding place.

"Haha. Thankfully we managed to hide the first bloodstained cloth in time," said Frederick weakly, holding his hand to a quickly reddening spot on his cheek. "I guess you must be really important, though? He doesn't usually act like that."

"He hit you?" I demanded. "How old are you?"

"Um, 17 –"

"THAT'S CHILD ABUSE! He's dead." I headed towards the door, which was up a small flight of stairs, but before I could make much progress I was picked bodily up and set firmly back down on the same counter as before. "Man, James, you're touchy-feely. More sensitive people would have whaled on you by now, y'know."

"You can't go _after_ him," he snapped. "Stay."

"Weeeelllll," I whined, "what am I supposed to do? I have to leave! It's not like he LIVES here or something."

James and Frederick both stared at me.

"…Ah, snap. He lives here, doesn't he?"

Frederick nodded. "As well as the person he works for – a Professor Moriarty. Perhaps you've heard -"

"Ah, DOUBLE snap!" Who would've figured I would end up in the same place this whole drastic adventure started in. "Alright. This leaves me one of two choices. Either I can stay here until I figure out a way to escape, or I stay here and try to figure out if this place is my ticket home."

"Stay with us," Frederick said feelingly. "You're probably not fit to leave yet, anyway. You've lost quite a deal of blood."

"Yeah, 'cuz you opened a door into my face," I said vaguely, but without accusatory tones. "Alright, fine. I can scout the place out before I leave, anyway. I'll stay here."

I glanced around the kitchen, taking in Frederick, James, the various pots, pans, and oversized utensils hanging from the ceiling, and the general kitchen-y splendor of it all. "Um. Where is _here_…?"

* * *

**A3:** (1) I don't like or watch _Spongebob_. How do I know this song, then? YOUTUBE. It's great stuff.

(2) In case it wasn't clear, there were at least two entrance/exits to the storeroom. Why is this? For the same reason that there was an escape route in the dungeon. IT'S CONVENIENT.

Alright, I'm done. Moran can talk now.

**Moran:** What if I don't WANT to?

**A3:** You don't have a choice. SPEAK UP, MAN.

**Moran:** Um. Well, that movie you made me watch was utterly moronic.

**A3:** WHAT? How could you _not_ like _Happy Feet_? It had PENGUINS! _Dancing_ penguins!

**Moran:** PRECISELY.

**A3:** Now, you can't _honestly_ tell me that a dancing Frodo-penguin failed to warm the cockles of your heart.

**Moran:** They're practically frigid.

**A3:** …You, sir, are an inimitable scoundrel. Leave my presence.

**Moran:** Really?

**A3:** No, not _really_, don't be ridiculous. I need you. Now do your job and ask for reviews.

**Moran:** I beg to differ. My "job" is not to ask for reviews. But, I shall humor you. Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet… please review.

**A3:** …That's it?

**Moran:** What do you mean "that's it?" I did what you asked me to.

**A3:** Well, yes, but compared to our DISCLAIMER it's just… DULL.

**Moran:** Don't criticize me.

**A3:** (Sarcastic) Indeed. (End sarcasm) You don't get to talk to me like that! Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?

**Moran:** Excuse me? Do I look like a _woman_ to you?

**A3:** …Your FACE.

**Moran:** What is THAT supposed to mean?

**A3:** Don't trouble your pretty little head about it, Your Majesty.


End file.
